[REG] It's a European Shoulderbag! (Thuban, Atlas) [FIN]

[cibarium]

After the meeting with Virgo and subsequent battle with Serandite, Sailor Atlas was fairly shaken up. And he remained like that for a few days, not taking to the streets for a while, clinging to his pillow like it was a lifeline while he tried to sleep, and generally being haunted by the faces of people who had gotten hurt because of him ever since he had gotten that henshin pen. Iris and her arm; that civilian who'd almost fallen off the bridge. One woman, dead; Thuban wounded by the murderer. Serandite, and Virgo.

Virgo, who had taken all of the hits meant for him. Virgo, who had to suffer even more from Atlas's own attack.

First he was a coward, and then when he'd tried not to be it still ended badly. He was an absolutely terrible senshi.

And yet here he was again, outside and henshined, patrolling the streets alongside Sailor Thuban. He had no idea why he'd let Charlie drag himself out here -- well, that was a lie. It was because he could never say no. For some reason, he had even more trouble saying no than usual when he picked up the phone and heard Charlie's voice on the other end of the line. It had been surprisingly easy to convince him to come out here. The conversation had been half-full of Simon's anxious stammering, but still.

Nothing interesting going on yet. Atlas's gaze kept darting around the slowly moving scenery around them and back to Thuban, wondering if he should say something.  

[Shazari]

Sailor Thuban's cloak was a good eight feet long, and right now it was the only mercy under heaven that magic had ever granted him. There was snow on the ground, and with every step he took in his Grecian sandals, he renewed his conviction: I won't be able to run track anymore once they amputate my toes. They look kind of waxy. They look kind of blackened. I am going to lose my toes. The rest of his clothing wasn't much warmer, except for the cloak -- so he'd wound that around himself as best he could, with his arms tucked inside, and was walking hunched forward.

There wasn't much they could talk about. Any information about their personal lives that could've been overheard and used to discover their identities was right out -- how did you spend Christmas? Anything about their senshi habits was nixed too -- do you usually patrol over by the park, or past the lake? This left them with profoundly little: S-s-seen any g-guh (Simon had particular trouble with hard G's, he noticed, like someone kept shoving glottal stops into the pronunciation guide, like he had an allergic reaction to them and his throat just seized up, depriving him of oxygen. Charlie was patient, and waited, and eventually he got past them.) guh-good movies, lately? Simon was unfortunately asking the wrong person. Charys had probably seen some good movies lately, but it had been awhile since she'd conscripted Charlie into any. (He didn't miss it, but then again, he did.)

So what they were left with, in the end -- what they were really left with, was --

"So how about this weather, Atlas?"

Soon the frostbite would claim his toes, and that would be a conversation piece.  

[cibarium]

Atlas had noticed the concern Thuban was experiencing over the state of his feet -- or, at least, he'd noticed that there was a good reason for Thuban to be consistently convinced that he would leave his toes behind with every next step. His uniform's footwear was quite unkind; there was only a loose mesh of tarnished copper separating his feet from the elements. Watching bits of snow nudge their way onto them made Atlas wonder if there were any of those fancy bathrooms nearby, where they could get some of those hot towels and wrap them around Thuban's ankles for a spell.

He felt incredibly lucky that his fuku had come with closed footwear, even if they provided absolutely no arch support. And the sleeves. And the gloves. And the fact his bottomwear had legs to it. Come to think of it, he was overall a little better equipped to face the elements than the average senshi, thank the star his power was drawn from.

The weather. What a thing to talk about. They were honestly so strapped for conversation material they were left with the weather, which they both knew and could agree without saying was awful.

"I..." Atlas started, and gulped heavily (he wished he knew why he was so nervous to add anything to such a commonplace conversation). "I'm j-just w-w-w-waiting for it to g-get warm again..."

He chewed his lip, glancing towards Thuban's tragically exposed legs again. God, he must have been freezing to death.  

[Shazari]

Thuban kicked his way, shivering, through a snowbank. "Doesn't anyone shovel their sidewalks?" he muttered. More audibly, to Atlas who was just a few paces off, he said, "Actually, do you know, I used to like winter. All the snow, sleeping in the afternoon in front of the fireplace, turtlenecks and wool sweaters, I mean, you can always put on more layers. I had this toboggan -- but this is, well, this is a job to do. And with some people out of commission it's even more important to go on patrol."

They stopped at a crosswalk, and Sailor Thuban kicked his shoes against the side of a lamppost to dislodge some clumps of snow while he waited for the light to turn, though no cars seemed to be coming. He was the sort of person who always walked when the little white man was lit up, and never when the big orange hand was flashing.  

[cibarium]

Thuban's small tangent over winter made Atlas briefly think on his own past experiences of it, though unlike the other he was never its biggest fan. It was always not quite warm enough to be comfortable, with a water heater that kept breaking down and never seriously got fixed. He recalled that a bunch of the neighborhood kids used to rig up a sprinkler at a vacant parking lot nearby and turn it into a makeshift ice skating rink -- but one year he'd gotten shoved out onto the ice and sprained his ankle, and that had convinced everyone's parents to shut down that operation for good.

He had a difficult time trying to imagine a younger Charlie with a toboggan, though this was entirely because it was difficult to imagine Charlie at any age wearing an expression that wasn't some variation of grouchy or deadpan. The poor boy ended up looking like he wasn't enjoying himself down the entire imaginary hill.

While they waited for the crosswalk light to change, Atlas shyly, wordlessly stepped out in front of Thuban, and nudged another snowpile that was in the way into something more manageable with his feet -- it was the least he could do, seeing how he had footwear that was actually suitable for dealing with this weather even though the rest of his uniform more or less wasn't.

"M-m-maybe we could step inside somewhere f-for a little bit," he mumbled in suggestion, although he was already certain the answer would be no. What he'd really meant by that suggestion, though, was maybe we can go in that convenience store over there, and at least see if we can't find you a pair of socks.  

[Shazari]

Sailor Thuban watched as Atlas kicked timidly at a tall patch of snow. Thuban couldn't tell if Atlas was simply that unenthusiastic about the task, or he had some kind of fear that he'd hurt the snow if he kicked it too hard, but it served to remind him of his general opinion that Simon Ferris had entirely the wrong temperament for the sailor soldier business. It was a difficulty: he wanted, on the one hand, to be able to send Simon home and tell him the sailor senshi would get by without him -- you're unsuited for the rage of war, so pack up, go home, you're through! -- but on the other hand, it wasn't his decision to make. He hadn't made this unfortunate boy a sailor senshi, and couldn't unmake him either. Thuban was neither Luna nor Princess Serenity. Instead, all he could do was try and help Sailor Atlas not to get killed.

(In some ways, of course, dragging Sailor Atlas out in the middle of winter was counterintuitive to this goal.)

Being his typically astute self, Thuban took in Atlas's suggestion that they find temporary shelter, thought it through, and arrived at what he thought was Atlas's meaning: Atlas was cold. "You're cold," he interpreted thusly.

He debated with himself, feeling entirely awkward with the thought, whether he should unwind his cloak and offer the long train to Atlas, or whether that would just look profoundly compromising for the both of them and give Atlas the wrong impression about Thuban (which was, inconveniently for Thuban, the right impression). In the end, he decided it was just a terrible idea all around. "Well, we can't go hang out inside of somewhere, no, since we're supposed to be patrolling. Neither rain, nor snow, nor sleet, nor hail shall keep the postmen from their appointed rounds, and all that." He paused, not quite meeting Atlas's eye. "But I tell you what, if we pass a food cart, I'll buy us some coffee."  

[cibarium]

"No, that isn't--" Atlas started to mumble in protest, quietly, but Thuban had continued talking without registering he had spoken. He probably hadn't heard him, but in all honesty that was probably a good thing, as Atlas would have ended up at a loss for words trying to correct the other's assumption. Even though the simple fact Thuban was most likely the colder one of the two would have been a satisfactory explanation, that wasn't quite it. He was... a little too worried about Charlie than he should have been, especially considering he was very sure Charlie was annoyed with him 100% of the time they interacted.

It was awkward. And confusing. And very awkward.

He continued to feel awkward at the offer to buy him coffee, the almost-but-not-quite touch of eye contact, the tiny change in Thuban's tone of voice. This should not have been that big a deal. It was cold outside, they were not dressed for the weather, they would both appreciate the small break from the elements a warm drink would provide. He should not be quite this nervous about the possibility of someone else paying for his coffee--

Atlas took a deep, ultimately unhelpful breath, the exhale slowly trailing away in a faint plume of mist. Against his nature he kept ahead of Thuban for a little while, kicking more mounds of snow out of the way and making a concentrated effort to not let his hands fly up away from his sides and fidget. After several minutes of trudging and very uncomfortable silence (they'd run out of conversation material now that they had briefly touched on the weather), the two boys ended up stopping in their tracks -- or in Thuban's case, Atlas's tracks -- discovering that the path they'd been taking had actually led them to a food cart.

This was unbelievably awkward.  

[Shazari]

It was a big, metal food cart with silver sides stamped in the typical diamond pattern -- the fellow inside it was selling newspapers, hot dogs, pretzels, and not much else, but on a night like tonight, coffee was undoubtedly on tap. Thuban dug around underneath the cuff of his sleeve, which was where he stowed his money (there really weren't many other options, given his costume).

Ahead of them was an elderly lady, who was slowly counting coins out of her purse, one nickel at a time. "Just a coffee?" Thuban asked Atlas while they waited out the old woman. A teenaged boy in a black wool skullcap got in line behind them, staring with mute horror at their clothing. Thuban wished just once that someone wouldn't obsess over the damned skirt.  

[cibarium]

Atlas had started to mumble something that withered away after two or three syllables when he looked up and noticed that Thuban was giving him a Significant Look that could have been saying a few different things. The first of these things was you better not be apologizing again; however, in this particular case the look more or less translated into you better not feel guilty that I am choosing to buy you something. This did well to make Atlas shut up before he'd really started, but did nothing to stop him from giving a look in response that pressed his lack of necessity for anything on this green Earth, be it coffee or a newspaper or a roof to sleep under or a glass of water once in a while.

Unfortunately, it was a long wait; the woman in front of them had a lot of nickels to count out of her heavy purse. It dragged on for long enough that it seemed like said purse contained a limitless, infinite supply of nickels. Atlas fidgeted, the boy in the skullcap looked more and more anxious, the noise of coins clinking against each other plucked at the thick strings of tension in the atmosphere.

It all, strangely, felt more like waiting in a dentist's office with no magazines in it than it did waiting in line in front of a food cart. Or at least it kept that way until the teen took in a sharp breath, barreled between the two senshi and grabbed the purse, his sneaker noisily clanging up against the side of the foodcart before making his full-on attempt at a frantic escape.  

[Shazari]

Sailor Thuban did not have the reflexes or the creativity to be able to quip at a moment's notice: he was, inevitably, a blurter, and as a result he often said things that were, at best, pointless, and at worst, embarrassing. In this case, what he blurted out was a pointless, "Hey! HEY!" while he stood by, looking stunned and not terribly intelligent. But after a few seconds, he recovered his wits, and took off -- again, going with nothing more than his first instincts -- on foot.

He was a track runner, and a pretty good one, at that; racing through the snow in Grecian sandals didn't slow him down much. What did slow him down, on the other hand, was that while Sailor Thuban had to dodge and weave around the other pedestrians out on the street to keep up, the thief in the skullcap had no such compunctions -- shoving people to the ground who were in his way.

Finally, Thuban called down, "Rust and Dust Accumulation!" and drew the bright lights into his closed fist. When the magic was gathered up, he threw it ahead of himself where it dispersed into the air: all of a sudden, the purse-snatcher and a few other people standing nearby were flung into slow-motion. His desperate strides swum slowly through the air.

Thuban ran into the thick of it, pivoting to a sudden stop. He punched the thief in the face -- he really was getting better at punching things than he used to be when he started out -- and then reached to tear the purse back out of his hands.

He left the boy where he was, and got as far as a block back towards the food cart before he stopped against a storefront wall to rest. Thuban hooked the purse over one wrist, then bent forward far enough to brace his hands on his kneecaps, catching his breath. He hoped Atlas had the old lady all under control.  

[cibarium]

Atlas was trying to keep the purse-snatching victim under control. He really, really was. But there was a bit of a problem in the fact that his help wasn't exactly wanted, his attempts at comfort and reassurance completely unwelcome -- when he'd realized his unwittingly assigned role and moved in to assure the woman Thuban would bring her purse back soon, the cries of "help, thief!" changed to accommodate the fact that she was now also being assaulted by a terrorist.

A very confused, uncomfortable terrorist. Atlas backed off and looked helplessly over to the vendor, who responded with a bit of a harried shrug. The senshi gave a resigned sigh at that, feeling lost, useless, and entirely out of place. Hopefully Thuban was having better luck. He probably was, he was definitely more the heroic type out of the two of them.

Well, now what.

Turning back towards the food cart, Atlas fidgeted for a moment until folded himself over to sit on the ground. Like Thuban and most other senshi his uniform was completely devoid of pockets, but unlike Thuban he didn't have something as relatively convenient as armbands to store a bit of cash. So, instead, he kept his own rainy-patrol money at the bottom of his shoe (he had learned the hard way to not keep change in his shoe), which he pulled off and dug through until fishing out enough crumpled bills to pay for coffee. Two coffees.  

[Shazari]

If running several blocks after a purse-snatcher was bad, then walking back several blocks -- with an old lady's gold lamé purse slung over his shoulder -- was worse.

("Hey, baby! Nice gams!"

"HOT!"

"Nice man-purse!")

Thuban slouched back stiffly through the slush on the sidewalk, toes starting to numb out again. The chase had gotten his circulation going, but that was fading again (probably all the blood was going to his face instead). Thuban was vastly relieved when the food cart, and the old lady, and Sailor Atlas, all came back in sight.

"Ma'am," he said, holding out the shiny purse, "here's your bag back."  

[cibarium]

The deed was done. The purse was returned, though the victim of the snatching seemed a little more frantic than thankful about it as she yanked the purse back into her arms and stormed off to find a food cart that didn't serve terrorists and thieving hooligans. A bit of an anticlimactic night, all things considered. Short struggle, somewhat humiliating return.

And then there was Atlas, dropping his change into his shoe and turning to Thuban with a coffee cup in each hand, holding one out to other senshi without saying a word.

Not that he really needed to say anything. His expression pretty much looked like he was preemptively apologizing for possibly purchasing the wrong thing even though the only coffee-themed item the vendor carried was 'Coffee' and the only cup size 'Coffee' came in was the one he had in his hands.  

[Shazari]

Sailor Thuban needed a stiff drink. What he had, instead, was a cheap paper cup with hot coffee in it. So he took what was offered in Simon's left hand -- did he imagine that that hand was slightly shaking, or was it a flicker of an overhead street light, perhaps? Thuban downed most of the coffee in one long, languorous swig, and though in the process he burned the roof of his mouth, he finished it with a solid, "Ahhhh."

This wasn't what Thuban had expected when he'd gone out on patrol with Sailor Atlas. He hadn't expected to be chasing a purse-snatcher. He hadn't expected Atlas to buy him coffee -- certainly had not expected that. And he really hadn't expected (not that anyone ever did, of course) to burn the inside of his mouth, which made his tongue feel like it was made of scrambled egg.

But -- after all -- it wasn't so bad.

{fin}